


CON-stipation

by Anonymous



Category: White Collar
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Crack, Neal Caffrey's Tracking Anklet, Protective Peter Burke, poop jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25801423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Neal doesn't poop at work. Peter worries about it.
Kudos: 8
Collections: Anonymous





	CON-stipation

**Author's Note:**

> I'm much more mature than this I swear
> 
> (spoiler alert: I'm _really_ not)

Neal had a rule. It wasn’t a rule anyone other than  _ he _ knew about. 

At least at first. 

In fairness, he probably weren’t the only person who had a similar rule. Which was the explanation he used with himself, when Peter  _ found out _ . 

It started out just fine. Everyone had heard about his current living conditions and standards of coffee, so no one questioned him refraining from the kind they had at the office. 

The first hint was  _ accidentally dropped  _ that morning. 

Peter often said that he looked skinny. This time, the agent thought he resembled a skeleton. 

“Not in a mood for croissants today?” he remarked, passing him some crackers. 

“I’ve had breakfast. You know I swim...I get slim,” Neal indicated his frame indignantly. 

Unbeknownst to him, it’s not a good idea to jiggle your lower abdomen when it’s full of said breakfast. It growled to register its displeasure.

“I think your stomach is trying to tell you something,” Peter noted with a smirk.

“Yeah, it’s trying to tell me I’m  _ gassy _ , go away,” he snarked, covering his face with a file.

_ He hoped he was just gassy _ ...

* * *

Peter spotted a movement out of the corner of his eye. Neal moved his right leg closer to his left, squeezing. He nodded and went back to work. He checked back, just a minute later, noticing that his C.I never left his desk. 

He took a sip of his coffee, leaning back in his chair to observe. 

Neal was drumming his fingers on his desk and frowning.  _ Yes _ , he definitely needed to use the restroom. 

And yet, he was a perpetually immovable object. 

When Caffrey clenched a fist on his desk and cupped his hand over it, sighing in frustration, Peter stepped out of his office and approached him. 

“Something bothering you?” he asked Neal carefully, patting the desk encouragingly.

“Yeah, you staring at me. I’ve  _ barely  _ moved from this desk all day, and you’re either worried that I’m dying which is ridiculous or up to something which is frankly insulting at this point,” Neal spat at him, putting on his coat.

“Where are you going?” 

“Home. To someone less paranoid,” Caffrey pointed at the clock. He veritably floated from his desk into the elevator, which fortunately for him opened as soon as the glass door swung closed behind him. 

Peter stood with his mouth half-open, wondering what the hell just happened. 

_ That was an odd coincidence _ , he noted. That just minutes before he’s due to leave, Neal receives a very different form of booty call.

But that wasn’t the only thing that struck Burke as odd. Neal accused him of staring, which meant he expected to be, and thus knew Peter’s reasons. The fact that he’d barely moved was probably true and  _ indeed, _ worrying. Reference to serious illness aka “dying” suggested there was something he missed. Something Neal assumed was evident but at the same time wished to keep private. 

One thing he knew for  _ certain _ ; Neal had been needing to use the restroom for much longer than he initially thought.

* * * * *

It wasn’t uncommon for Elizabeth to find her husband checking Neal’s anklet, though he only tended to do so after he’d done something shady, or had an unusually long time for himself, sans anklet, for a mission.

And it wasn’t ordinarily coupled with quick kisses on the cheek and storming into the living room, upon coming home. Certainly not on a day that ended at 5 sharp. 

Working overtime at the coffee table was never due to Neal. And yet, the laptop was flicked open and the screen flashed the tracking data in half a second, upon request.

“Don’t tell me the anklet  _ fell off _ ,” she joked, patting her stressed hubbie’s head.

“No...though I don’t think he’d get very far if it did,” Peter murmured. 

El handed him a cup of coffee, she’d made when he texted his ETA from the Taurus a while ago.

  
“What did he do?” she queried, sitting down next to him. 

  
“It’s what he  _ didn’t _ do, that worries me,” he explained. 

“You see, the anklet is accurate to the yard, even inside buildings. The Marshal’s have access to FBI floor plans, so they know what room he’s in if he were to fancy an  _ expedition _ down some floors.” 

Peter pointed at the red dot representing his C.I sitting at desk at the start of the day. 

“For instance, if we click  _ here _ , on the bathroom,” he demonstrated. “We can see when he was in there,” 

The screen showed several times. 

“What I’m interested in, is not  _ when  _ he did his business, but for how long,” Peter explained.

  
They both checked the numbers. It showed no more than a minute each time. 

“Definitely not long enough for a nr 2,” he guessed, turning to his brilliant wife, who shrugged.

“So, he doesn’t poop at work, I know plenty like that; what’s the big deal?” El wondered, confused.

“I found him hunched over in pain earlier, with 20 minutes left of the day. He snapped at me when I gave a discreet nudge about it, so I don’t think for a second he went from being cool as cucumber to colonic _calamity_ in a flash,” he retold. “I’m worried about him, El. I don’t want him to hurt his body for no reason. In the field  _ or _ off,” 

“Don’t suppose you could get June to slip him a bran muffin with his breakfast?” Mrs Suit suggested.

  
“No, he’s allergic to pine nuts, I can’t disguise it; give him a muffin with decorations, he’ll have to _inspect_ it,” Peter frowned.

“Well, you  _ could  _ try just talking to him about it,” Elizabeth proposed.

* * *

The next day went smoothly for the criminal, and subsequently, the movement of his bowels.

It was a risk, the assumption that Peter had made, but he was willing to take it.

“The bathroom’s that way,” he informed Neal, who had already pressed the elevator call button, and was currently breathing heavily.

“Excuse me?” Caffrey was still under the illusion that he was showing no symptoms.

“I was just wondering why you’re taking a detour to drop a deuce,” Peter remarked.

Neal flushed red, looking down. “Peter..” he protested, unconvincingly.

“Come on, Caffrey, when I say ‘cowboy up’ I don’t mean for you to  _ constipate  _ yourself. You won’t be the only one,” Burke insisted. 

Neal raised a sceptical eyebrow. 

“ _ I _ do it,” he admitted. 

This made the con man surrender. If his handler was defiling the  _ office  _ bathroom, then maybe the rule didn’t make as much sense as he thought.

It felt a smidgen awkward, knowing, that unlike most of his bathroom breaks, Peter was outside perfectly aware of what he was doing. Though that particular  _ embarrassment  _ was on him. 

* * * * * * * *

Neal returned looking visibly lighter and relaxed.

“Not too hard, was it?” Peter smiled. “The break room has bran muffins if it _was_ ,” he pointed at the room casually.

Caffrey made a “zip it” gesture insistingly. 

“You don’t shush  _ me _ ,” he reminded him, wholly unseriously. 

Neal glared at him, walking towards his desk. 

“You know what they say; shit happens,” Peter recited.

Caffrey shook his head and rolled his eyes at the pointed turn of phrase. 

“Wrong,” he rebutted.

Jones was restraining laughter behind a newspaper. 

“ _ Happened  _ ” 

Neal put his hat over his head, and got back to work while the rest of the office,  _ at least  _ those who was within hearing range, burst into laughter. 

He indulged them, eventually removing the trilby. It always messed up his curls...

**He’d made the rule after repeated exposure to various offices. Typical, boring, bland,** **_normal_ ** **offices. Now, he realised, this was not a normal office.**

**It was White Collar.**


End file.
